Miscellanea
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: A collection of drabbles and other snippets not worth posting on their own. Chapters four, five, and six: fanfic folder spring cleaning.
1. Photographs

_**Miscellanea**_

**

* * *

**

_**DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: OH WOW! I wrote something! …Not exactly recently, however. Some time back (November, maybe?) bcbdrums randomly asked me to do a drabble. So, I did. And I have not done anything with it. But I stumbled upon it and have decided to post it…and I'll do more drabble-y things in the future…updating as I actually do them (which may or may not be frequently.)**

**I never have given much thought to posting little random things like this, but here it is...**

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

"Holmes…" Watson began one cold winter's evening.

"Hm?" the detective muttered, not looking up from the book he was reading as he smoked.

"Why don't you have any photographs of yourself or your family?"

Holmes finally looked up and around, as if he was checking the validity of Watson's question.

"Because, I've no reason to have them. I know what I look like, and I remember what they looked like."

"But, Holmes, that's not the only purpose for them."

"Then what, pray?"

"Well…there are memories."

"I've just said I remember them."

"But that's not what I meant. Photographs have sentimental value."

"Sentimental value is for those with a more emotional nature."

"Ah, yes…of course."

And Watson went back to reading his terribly romantic novel.

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thank you for reading, do not forget to review!**


	2. Tormented Volition

_**Miscellanea**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: The wonderful creations of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and their universe belong to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and not this poor writer.**_

**KS: Here's another random writing... It's somewhat of a continuance of bcbdrums's Tormented Volition, chapters eight through ten. So...it's not like it's a direct continuance...it's just that it gave me a vague 'plot bunny' and I wanted to see where it went. XD So this isn't a drabble, it's just a...ficlet.**

**Oh, yes, and it is in Holmes's POV, since that is so much easier to write. XDD**

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

I hate my surroundings sometimes. I feel no desire to do anything. I feel so exceedingly useless and caged that quiet thoughts in my head spur me towards suicide. I dismiss such illogical thoughts, but… Am I going mad? I feel like it occasionally. Surely my thoughts are not those of a rational man. What will I do if I lose my mind? My life will not be worth living.

I need…_something_ to do, but I am so apathetic at the present, drowning so in my own thoughts, struggling with the agony of my stagnation…and even if I _do_ rise to do something, I only fail. This morning I tried a very familiar air on my violin, but I failed so miserably that I almost felt like throwing the dashed thing into the wall. What is wrong with me?

I must be going mad. My stagnation has finally done it—my fears are being realised. My mind is slipping; at times it seems like I can just barely keep my hold on it.

I have not slept well in a week. I don't think Watson has noticed, or by now he would have suggested I take something to help.

I am shaking. It's barely noticeable, but I feel it. Thoughts wend through my mind, causing unspeakable agonies and fears. And what can I do? I can do nothing but lie here, letting them tear my mind apart.

What I would give for a case! What am I _without_ a case? Without my art, I have nothing, and am nothing. My life is despaired of.

* * *

All day long I have lain here; I have not moved at all. What reason have I to move? It would be a useless expenditure of energy, and I have no will to do so, anyway. I took the cocaine this morning, but that barely helped. It only gives me a brief distraction from the dreadful monotony.

My mind dulls with every passing moment. I have not touched my violin to-day. I cannot possibly succeed on it. Failure would only bring more pain. My chemicals lie on the table, but I have no desire to take up my research. What am I without my work? I cannot live. And yet, I cannot work.

The darkness outside the window seems to creep in upon me. I wonder how long it will be until my next case…how long I can survive…

Watson has entered, and I feel his eyes upon me. I feel he wants me to look at him, so I do. His eyes…they stare into mine for a moment, and a curious and unfamiliar expression comes across his face. Somehow I find the way he is looking at me most uncomfortable, and I almost say something, but he turns quickly and disappears into his room. I do not rise to go after him. I only feel more miserable.

What was that look? Confusion, but more than that. He has never looked at me that way before. It was as if he did not know me. And did my eyes deceive me, or did he look unwell? Likely had caught it from a patient… Odd that I had not yet noticed.

I sat up and stretched before I stood; my limbs ached after staying in one position all day. I walked over to the mantel, setting my hand on top as I stared into the flames. I could not overcome my lassitude, not on my own. I needed an external stimulus. I gave a tired sigh as I looked toward the door.

He had looked at me as if he didn't even know me, like he didn't recognise me. Perhaps that was no surprise; I felt as if I did not know myself anymore. I felt the slightest of tremors in my limbs and reached my other hand towards the mantel. I bypassed the syringe and bottle and took up one of my pipes. I did not fill it or light it yet, my fingers instead played with its stem, running over the familiar object thoughtfully for a few minutes. I sat my elbow upon the mantelpiece and stared thoughtfully at the wall.

I replaced my pipe among the others and swiftly moved across the room, taking up my violin-case. I carefully opened the latches and drew out my instrument, tightening the hairs of the bow with a movement that was second nature. I placed the violin under my chin and raised the bow and began to play a very familiar tune, slowly at first, to make sure I was steady in my technique. As I grew more certain I picked up the tempo, and I felt myself relax. I heard a few slightly off notes, but I pressed forward. I would not let some small error put me off.

The melody was soothing and peaceful; I focused my mind on it, letting the notes drown out all other thoughts. I made my way over to my armchair and sat, and I continued to play for some hours.

**

* * *

**

"Watson," I said as he entered the room and made his way to the dining-table the next morning. I laid the newspaper down beside my plate, folded where I could see it clearly and eat at the same time.

"Mm?" he muttered. He looked a little better than he had yesterday. That was good.

"I believe there is a concert to-day which you would enjoy attending," I remarked.

He stared at me for a few moments in confusion, almost disbelief.

"Are you on a case, Holmes?" he asked slowly.

"No," I replied simply, shaking my head and continuing to run my eyes across the agony columns as I brought a forkful of eggs to my mouth.

Watson continued to stand blinking at me for a minute or so, and then seated himself at the table.

"I trust you are feeling better. I'm sorry you had to take a sleeping draught last night. I hope my violin-playing did not disturb you?"

Watson smiled, clearly and genuinely. "No, not at all, Holmes. In fact, I think it helped more than the medicine." I felt his eyes on me for a minute more as he poured his coffee. "If you are not on a case…" he began, and I looked up at him. He stared at me still a moment longer, and then shook his head smiling. "Never mind, Holmes. I'm just glad to have you back."

"Back?" said I. "I have not left."

"Of course not, Holmes. Of course not."

I looked at him with a furrowed brow, urging him to clarify, but he turned his attentions upon his breakfast and that was the end of it.

But I suppose I knew what he meant anyway.

I had been totally lost to my ennui for a time; so long that he had been becoming equally as unhappy. If my misery affected him so, perhaps I would have to find a way to be less miserable.

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thanks for reading. I'm not sure how good it is, not having written much at all in a while, so don't forget to review and tell me!**


	3. Nothing to Fear

_**Miscellanea**_

**

* * *

**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**KS: This is a small scene that flashed into my head when I got an idea for a fic a long time back. (This document is dated as last being worked on at 6-19-08, which isn't so absolutely awful—I have older…but still.) I let bcbdrums read it a few days ago after I found it, and she said I should post it in **_**Miscellanea. It wasn't a stand alone, being a scene from a much larger fic idea, so I had to edit it some, but I tried to leave it largely the same since bcb said it was good.**_

**So, enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

I was not very hungry when Watson suggested that we stop to eat and was about to protest, but I could see instantly when I looked at his open countenance that he was famished. Undoubtedly it had been the singular events of the day which had made him so.

"I suppose it would not hurt for us to eat a bit," said I, "you look as though you need it."

"And so do you, I'm sure," said Watson as we crossed the street to the restaurant. "You have not eaten a thing since last night."

I sighed.

"Perhaps, but I cannot confess to being in the mood to eat," I replied.

"You will try for my sake?"

"I will _pay_ for your sake; I observe your purse is a little lighter since that last race--"

"Holmes!" Watson said with a slight flush and a tight smile. "Very well, then. You will try to eat for your _doctor's _sake?"

"I will eat a little," I consented.

"Good."

We entered and were shown to our table, I taking the seat where I could have the best vantage point of the rest of the crowd, and Watson sitting almost opposite from me. The waiter took our orders promptly and brought us our wine as we waited. Watson twirled his in his glass thoughtfully before speaking.

"Holmes," he said.

"Mm?"

"The cab...do you suppose that possibly it was purposefully--"

"Oh, no, Watson. It is not uncommon for pedestrians on the street to find themselves very nearly under the wheels of a cab or 'bus," I replied before sipping my vintage.

"Holmes, you're speaking as if it was nothing. We were almost killed to-day."

"That has happened before," I replied.

I was not about to admit to how much the event had unnerved me as well. He had been closer to being run over than I, since I was much faster than he.

"Yes, but I still haven't quite gotten used to it," Watson said, and I saw the corner of his lips tug upwards in a tight smile.

"I suggest that you don't think on it further, Watson. Why don't you give me your opinion on the Williamson murder instead? What have you heard of it?"

"Williamson murder?" said my companion, his brow furrowing lightly in thought, "I don't know if I recall that one..."

"It was in The Times yesterday morning. It is nothing of much consequence anyway, I think. I was only inquiring because I did not get to read the papers to-day."

I looked up and saw that our food was arriving.

"Oh, good," said Watson, "I'm absolutely ravenous."

The waiter placed our dishes upon the cloth and uncovered them, and the scent of veal and curried mutton hit my nostrils, and my appetite awakened just slightly.

I sipped at my wine once more before eating, but Watson quickly took to his meal. I sliced a piece of the meat before me and lifted it to my mouth with my fork, but as I started to chew I noticed a distinctly queer flavour. It was a _familiar_ flavour, at that.

I quickly took up my napkin and spat every bit of the food out into it, ridding my mouth of the substance. I looked up and realised that my friend was eating as well.

"Watson!" I cried, standing to my feet, "Spit it out, now!!"

Watson's brows drew together questioningly, his eyes wide at my strange actions.

"I said to spit it out!!!" I commanded again, and finally he complied.

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?" he asked, confused but concerned.

"There was poison in mine."

My companion's eyes grew even wider. But it was not merely surprise...that I could see. It was almost like horror.

"Holmes," he breathed, "I've already swallowed some."

I uttered an oath, not caring if it disturbed the other patrons--for, indeed, they were already disturbed by my shouting. He had to have ordered _curried_ mutton! Such insurance that the poison would go unnoticed!

"Then you know what you must do, man! Hurry!"

"But, Holmes, I can't do that here--"

I cursed again and yanked him harshly from the table and out the door onto the street.

"_Here,_ then!" I said.

Watson knew from my tone that I meant what I said with the utmost severity. He turned to face the alley beside the restaurant and forced himself to vomit. It was unpleasant as well as awkward, I knew, but it was better than death.

After he had emptied his stomach's contents he coughed a few times and hastily drew out his handkerchief. "Why on earth was it poisoned, Holmes?" he gasped.

"I do not know," I replied, my agitated tone matching his.

"This is…" he took a moment to pause for breath, "extremely strange."

"Indeed," I agreed. I wondered if the incidents with the masonry and the cab that nearly ran us down had any relation to this one. The first two could have been accidental, whereas the last was most certainly not. But I highly doubted in the depths of my mind that they were coincidental. If so, who was out to see our destruction? I would have to devote all my energies to finding out.

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!**


	4. Late Night Help

_**Miscellanea**_

**

* * *

**

_**DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Pft. Randomness. I'm cleaning out my fic folder.**

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

Holmes sat in his chair before the fire across from Watson; the doctor had lost _three _patients that day and had felt miserable ever since. Holmes had been endeavouring to lift his spirits, but he found that no matter what he tried, he could not. It was a very confusing and problematic situation. He wished to go to bed, for to-morrow he was to set out on a case, but with Watson acting so very unlike himself he could not. Watson _had_ admitted he felt _better_, and that was some consolation, but even though he could not quite fully understand these matters of the heart he knew Watson was far from well.

It was growing late. Though while on a case Holmes had a most remarkable ability to stay awake for days, while off a case he could succumb to the desire to sleep like any other mortal, and his lids were growing heavy. He resorted to blinking much to keep himself alert in the silence as he tried to think of some method to help his friend further. Seeing him in such a depressed state was most disturbing.

The detective's head had begun to sink when Watson spoke.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. I don't _want _to feel this way, but….they were all so _young_…"

"Mm…" Holmes muttered, resting his head against his fist. "I know. Losing a client or patient is never an easy thing."

Watson looked up at his friend at hearing his drawled reply. His lids were slowly sliding closed, but he stirred himself before he fell asleep.

"I suppose it's time we go to bed," Watson remarked.

Holmes nodded, "Possibly. Are you quite ready to?"

"I think so."

"Mm, good," Holmes said, setting aside his long-extinguished pipe. "I'm afraid I was little help besides. I become rather slow and stupid when I _do_ manage to get tired."

"Oh, never, Holmes. I don't recall any time when the word 'stupid' or 'slow' could be used to describe you."

"Mm…" Holmes nodded, "I'm afraid it's so. It's especially worse if after long periods without a case." He gave a small yawn, hiding it behind a thin hand. "Remember that affair of the priest, Father Bedevere? Or Mrs. Rachel Fairchild. Or the dustman, Langley? I'm afraid I was most disappointing on those occasions. Slow and blind as a beetle!"

"_Your_ definition of 'slow and stupid' is a much different one than mine, Holmes."

The detective gave a slight shrug. "They are still instances of stupidity."

"Hm. I suppose the reason I don't remember them is because each time you recover so beautifully."

Holmes paused, his eyes opening wide. He looked at Watson for a few moments searchingly, and then averted his eyes. A light pink flush was upon his gaunt cheeks; Watson saw his expression and smiled faintly. If there was _anything_ in the world that could catch Sherlock Holmes off his guard, it was unexpected genuine praise from a friend.

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thank you for reading, do not forget to review!**


	5. Itchy Inconvenience

_**Miscellanea**_

**

* * *

**

_**DISCLAIMER: The wonderful creations of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and their universe belong to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and not this poor writer.**_

**KS: You know, sometimes inspiration strikes from real life, sets a passion inside of you, and you end up with a masterpiece… I don't think this is one of those times. XD**

**Way back when I wrote this, I was having a problem similar to Holmes's. It was a sort of allergy…most annoying. **

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

"Holmes," Watson began admonishingly as he walked into the sitting-room and saw the lithe figure of Sherlock Holmes writhing upon the sofa, scratching his abdomen fervently.

"Blast it, Watson, you don't know what it's like!" Holmes cried in reply, slamming his hands down at his sides in reluctant obedience.

"The itching will only continue to worsen if you keep scratching!"

"If I _don't_ scratch," Holmes growled, "then I shall go _mad_!"

Watson sighed as he seated himself heavily in a chair opposite the detective and leaned forward. "You must give your skin time to heal. We don't even know what it is, so you could very well be spreading it!"

Holmes shuddered, obviously repressing the urge to scratch again. "It's not healing, though! I cannot even sleep at night, this itch is….." Holmes's face screwed up in a mix of frustration and pain as he clapped his hand down on his arm harshly. "It is intolerable. I don't know how much longer I can take it."

"Have you used the ointments I prescribed?"

"Yes. And I've tried everything else after _they_ didn't work—even remedies that sound so absurd that only a poor, uneducated imbecile would use them! And I only _proved_ their ineffectiveness. I wish I had never taken that blasted case. _Something_ in that house—" Holmes paused to run a claw-like hand across his middle, a scowl adorning his gaunt face, "something in that house caused this infernal torture! It should be burnt to the ground!!"

"Are you sure it's not an allergy to something? Have you changed anything—your diet, your laundry?"

"I am not the one to ask. And you would have noticed if Mrs. Hudson was doing something different with the wash or our meals—_certainly_ you would have noticed a change in the meals."

"Mm… I suppose so."

There was silence for a moment between the two, save the noise from Holmes's scratching.

"Ugh…" Holmes groaned, reaching into his sleeve to claw at his wrist. "I can't even…play my violin…" he muttered between scratchings. "My hands are too unsteady, and I cannot take my mind far away enough from the itch."

"You haven't…?" Watson glanced over toward the mantelpiece, and the detective easily knew his implication.

"No. Not for two days, because the one time that I did, I ended up scratching at the injection site and made a small cut in my arm, which I now believe is infected, and itches all the worse…"

"Well, perhaps something good will come of this."

Holmes gave Watson a glare. "Do not begin with me; I am in no mood to be lectured." He folded his arms around himself and laid his head back in resignation, closing his eyes. "I am bruised, sore, and covered with small cuts which only make the pain _worse. _I cannot stand it…"

"I know you can't…" Watson said with a sigh. "I wish I could help."

"I wish you could, too," Holmes said quietly without looking at him.

"Do you want to try another bath?" Watson asked tentatively.

"What for? It only helps for a little while."

Watson hesitated before putting forth his last idea. "What about going to see another doctor? One other than myself."

"Doctors are fine for other people, but for myself, I'd rather not go," Holmes replied.

"Why?"

"Because for one thing, I find them exceedingly intrusive. For another, I do not like putting strange chemicals into my body just to—" Holmes left off as he thought about his statement. "Well, you get the idea."

"But Holmes, you're positively miserable."

"…True." Holmes sighed. "I suppose I can go to a doctor to-morrow… Which do you suggest?"

**

* * *

**

Holmes walked into the sitting-room the next afternoon, carrying a small parcel.

"So? What did he say?" Watson asked curiously.

"That I came into contact with something that agitated my skin," he replied, reaching to slightly scratch at his side. "It could have been anything, he said… But as long as I do not come into contact with it again and use this," he held up the parcel, "I should improve. So in effect, I learned nothing that I had not already surmised."

"But at least you have something to treat it now."

"Yes, _if_ it works."

"Let us hope it works. You severely need sleep; you look dreadful."

"I'm going to try it now, so if Mrs. Hudson or anyone else comes…"

"Yes, I know, get rid of Mrs. Hudson and keep any clients busy."

"Thank you, Watson, you are most helpful."

Sherlock Holmes then disappeared into his room to use the new ointment. Watson waited, continuing to read his book, but giving an occasional glance toward the detective's closed door. Holmes had been inactive, in pain, and had been losing sleep for so long, he did not even seem like the same person. He worried that even if the affliction cleared up, Holmes would still be deeply depressed, for now he seemed almost unwilling to live. But even so, he simply must find a way to be healed, because he could not go on living so wretchedly. Things would look up again once he was well, and hopefully this new medication would do the trick.

Some time later, Holmes emerged. His jacket was gone, replaced with his softest dressing-gown, and his tie was absent. The man rubbed the back of his neck as he tiredly walked over to the settee.

"Well?" Watson asked.

"Well, what? If you mean to ask if it is helping, I'm afraid so far all it is doing is giving me a rather unpleasant burning sensation all over. But the doctor said it probably would do as much, and to ignore it, because according to him that meant it was helping."

"Yes, not every treatment is pleasant. The burning will go away in time."

Holmes nodded as he sat.

"And don't scratch until later; give it time to work," Watson added.

Holmes nodded quickly again. "Yes, yes, I know. More easily said than done, however."

**

* * *

**

Some days later Holmes emerged from his room, shaved, dressed, and ready for the day. Watson looked up from his toast expectantly.

"Do you think it is working _yet_?" he inquired.

Holmes gave a soft sigh as he sat down to the breakfast-table. "Actually, yes. I managed to sleep through the night with minimum difficulty, and my skin is showing a marked improvement."

"Wonderful," Watson smiled before taking a sip of tea. "Perhaps soon you'll be completely cured, and even have a case."

"Positive thinking, Watson. It is not so simple, but I appreciate your intentions."

"Hm," Watson laughed. "You never know when a new client will walk in."

Holmes opened the paper before him, leafing through to the agony columns and opening his mouth to speak. Before he could, however, there was a frenzied ring of our door-bell, and he looked up.

"Well, well… it would seem things _are _looking up for us after all." He smiled, setting the paper aside.

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thanks for reading, don't forget to review!**


	6. Nature

_**Miscellanea**_

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the grand creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not me.**

**KS: After becoming bored at my grandmother's birthday party, I ventured outside and wandered about my grandparents' yard…which is where I got the inspiration for this. I tried doing research for it, but couldn't come up with much. (Useless internet…XD)**

**As a note, I wrote this....quite some time ago. XD One or two of you have already read it via e-mail, if I recall correctly. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes quickly grew bored with the chatting adults scattered around the house for his father's birthday party. He managed to slip out, unnoticed, and began to walk around the extensive yard. He didn't really have any purpose…he just wanted to be out in the quiet to think.

It was a very lovely day, and he felt the warmth of the sun soaking into his chilled bones—that house was so terribly draughty! There was a light breeze that kept him from getting too hot, and he stuck his hands into his pockets as he strolled along.

He observed an ant climbing a tree nearby, and as it crawled upward a very large bee flew in front of him, and his head turned quickly to watch it fly until it disappeared.

_Wow…_ he thought. _I wonder what kind of bee that was…?_

After a moment he continued on until he came to a small, peculiarly rocky place in the yard next to a tree. He kicked at the small stones, hoping to find at least one that looked interesting, but they were all quite ordinary. So, he looked up at the trees.

He observed a butterfly as it flitted through the sunlight between one tree and another and watched with interest the way it flapped its wings to remain aloft.

We walked a little farther and stopped as he heard a strange noise.

_Snip, snip, snip…_

The young boy looked up, knowing the strange noise was coming from that direction, and his large silvery eyes darted quickly across the branches. He soon espied a single insect perched on a leaf, snipping away with powerful mandibles. Soon a piece about three-fourths of an inch long fell away, and the little creature fell with it in its jaws, but it immediately started to fly, and Sherlock watched it as it carried its prize back to wherever its destination was.

He tried to leap up and grasp the leaf from which the section had been taken, but he was too short. He looked over at the tree's trunk and contemplated climbing it. He knew he could, for he had done it several times before (the first time he had, Mycroft had been forced to "rescue" him when he fell out…resulting in a sprained wrist for the elder Holmes child).

He grasped the highest branch he could reach and set his foot upon the lowest and proceeded to scurry up to the branch which held the leaf. He was scuffing up his new shoes, but that didn't matter; he wanted to inspect the leaf. He reached for it; still he was too far away. Cautiously he scooted farther out, and finally he was able to pluck the leaf from the branch. He retreated to a place on the branch closer to the trunk and placed his back against it, swinging his scrawny legs from either side of his perch.

He examined it minutely, and saw that the cut was surprisingly clean. It was interesting…not extremely so, but fascinating in its own way. He twirled the stem between his fingers thoughtfully as he looked around; the view was very good from his current position. He put the leaf into his pocket and climbed back down, dropping from the lowest branch onto the dirt below. He resumed his amblings, noting how different the fresh air was to the musty odour of the house.

Nature was fascinating. There were many mysteries about it—like, what was the insect's exact purpose for taking that segment of leaf? He did not think that studies of nature would be a good choice of career for him…it was hardly as active as he would like to be. But perhaps when he got much older and needed to slow down...

"Sherlock!" called a husky boy standing at the corner of the house. "Sherlock!"

"Here, Mycroft!" the boy called, running up to his older brother.

"There you are. Mother was wondering where you got off to. She wants you to play a song for the guests."

"But, I'm not that good yet…do you really think I'll be able to?" the younger child asked curiously, looking up at his brother with unsure eyes.

"Of course. And if you're not, it won't matter, because I'm sure they don't expect much from a child, especially not one so unhealthy-looking as you. Now come, I'm missing luncheon."

**

* * *

**

**KS: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!**


End file.
